


even yet they were divided

by duckbunny



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:39:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8850592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckbunny/pseuds/duckbunny
Summary: Philippe isn't jealous.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/gifts).



Philippe isn't jealous.

He doesn't get jealous. He doesn't _need_ to get jealous. He is second in line to the throne of France and he can _order_ anyone to his bed he likes, with the trifling exception of close relatives and perhaps some priests. The Chevalier de Lorraine is well known to belong to him and so what does it matter if others play with his toys while he's away? How serious can it be, if the Chevalier has wandering hands?

There is a gala tonight. There is always a gala at Versailles, though Versailles itself is still barely a skeleton, draughty and ugly with scaffolding. The King must have his glory and so there are the endless parties in the ballrooms, spilling out into the gardens. Tonight is no great matter, only two dozen carriages from Paris and the resident nobles almost relaxed around the table, growing accustomed to the new ways of the court. The Chevalier – _Philippe's_ Chevalier – is merrily drinking from the glass of a blushing young noblewoman, glancing up at her through his eyelashes _._ Philippe slices his meat into precisely even pieces and says nothing to his wife.

After the excellent and perfectly tedious meal, they are released to dance and take the air. Philippe asks Henriette to dance, just to make Louis take her off him. He's changed his hairstyle again and the noblemen haven't quite caught up. Philippe twirls his glass and keeps his hands away from the ribbon in his hair. He knows it was sitting correctly when the meal began and to fiddle with it in public would be an unbearable lapse of poise. In any case, crooked or not, it's more attractive than Louis' latest flirtation with fashion.

The sudden arm around his waist can only belong to one person and Philippe leans into it with a smile he can't quite suppress. He tilts his head back to look at his Chevalier. There's a promising tension in his jaw. “Is something wrong?”

The Chevalier breathes out through his nose. “You're flirting again.”

“Am I?” Philippe says, “and what is that to you?”

His arm tightens around Philippe. “Shall we go for a walk, my dear? I hear the rose garden is exquisite at this time of year.”

Philippe looks at him sceptically. “Have you ever seen it at this time of year”

“Not if I can help it. But if you were there, I might make an exception.”

Philippe can feel the strain in him, how hard he's working to keep his voice light and his hands still, and perhaps the rose garden isn't such a bad idea.

At this time of year, most of the blossoms are dead. The gardeners are at work in here every day, snipping off the flowers whose petals have started to spot with brown. The place is becoming bleak, rose bushes hibernating like hedgehogs, nothing but prickles turned out against the cold. But in the faint moonlight, one can hardly see the flowers anyway. The grassy paths are a grey carpet underfoot, between the low banks of the roses, hulking in their own shadows.

Philippe lets his hand drift up from the Chevalier's waist to the back of his neck, digging his nails in where the hair begins. “You can hardly blame me for flirting. You do it so well yourself.”

“I'm not married,” the Chevalier answers, his voice steady.

“I didn't choose that.”

“I know.”

“And besides, I have to flirt with her. She _is_ my wife, I have to keep up at least the appearance that there might be a child.”

The Chevalier's voice is low, a challenge. “Might there be?”

“I don't want there to be.” Philippe stops walking, letting his hand drop back to the Chevalier's waist. “Don't talk about her. You didn't bring me out here to talk.”

“Didn't I?” He's serious for a moment, just long enough for Philippe to start worrying, and then he smirks and draws Philippe in for a kiss.

Philippe lets himself melt into it. They're not exactly being watched, here, only the delicious possibility remaining that someone might happen to pass by and see them, enough to get the heart pounding. The music from the ballroom lingers at the edge of his hearing. The Chevalier's lips are warm, his hair a soft mass of curls in Philippe's hands.

“I missed you,” he murmurs into Philippe's ear. He's fumbling with Philippe's breeches. Philippe leans up and bites his neck, too hard, it's going to show when they go back, but it serves the purpose and the Chevalier's hands go to his hips and push him sharply away. Philippe sprawls on the ground, though the push wasn't nearly hard enough to knock him down. He's rewarded with the weight of a body against his and a hungry mouth demanding that he kiss.

There's no finesse to it. No lingering decadence over two bottles of wine and three pretty young men brought in to share. This is hurried, their hands tangled in clothing, rubbing against each other as though they might drown without it. The night is warm and Philippe is stripped down to his shirt before the hunger takes him over and he has no patience for anything except rutting into the Chevalier's hand in his breeches. His shoulders are damp where he's lying half across a rose bed. Soil stains. He'll get a new one made, it's not important, not when there's a hard cock under his fingers and his mouth is watering to taste it.

When Philippe has spat semen into the flowerbed he sighs, and rests his head in the hollow of the Chevalier's hip. There's still something digging into his shoulder and he strains to reach it, too far back to get his fingers on it, until the Chevalier pushes him to sit up and finds the thorn with his fingertips. “You ought to be more careful,” he says softly. “We can't have royal blood being spilled.”

“Who's going to stop us?” Philippe asks.

“Your brother, perhaps.”

“My brother will catch pneumonia fucking in the lake.”

“Heaven forbid,” the Chevalier says, and his eyes glitter with the light of the palace windows. “What a disaster that would be.”


End file.
